


The Dark Days of Us

by marcasite



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, Spoilers for Episode: s08e11 Dark Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcasite/pseuds/marcasite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And when it’s over, (the moment never them) him, her, that will become a different kind of truth.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, it’s the truth layered between the lies that makes them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ring around the rosie

**Author's Note:**

> Post- Dark Water, I made some assumptions about Death in Heaven but I really don't know what is going to happen. This is very much a character study of Clara. Danny is part of this story but it will eventually be more Twelve & Clara.
> 
> Take a moment to check out the stunning artwork for the end of the last chapter by veradune (spoilers so wait tile the end): [here](http://veradune.tumblr.com/post/125712490872/hours-after-her-arrival-on-the-tardis-and-the) and check out her art blog on tumblr as well at [notthehugging](http://notthehugging.tumblr.com/).

The days after they will avoid each other as much as possible.

It’ll be easy. Too easy. He’ll bring her back, he’ll park the Tardis and reach out to pat her shoulder (but his hand will drop even as thought occurs) as she passes him by, his form of empathy but unfilled. They won’t speak to each other, the time for words laced with honesty has long since passed. And then he will go. 

There will be those who will smile at her, sympathy wreathed in a crooked smile and avert their eyes. She’ll nod and try and smile back, but it’ll hurt too much and her smile will fade (in time) seconds after they pass each other.

It isn’t until the end of the that Tuesday— when she stands in front of her flat and hesitates with her sweater draped over on arm and her free hand clutching her bag— that the exhaustion finally catches up to her.

It’s been too long since she’s pretended to smile like that.

As she pushes the door open, she see the Doctor standing inside the hallway, leaning against the Tardis parked at the end.

“Clara.” His voice is soft. “I wasn’t sure when you would be home.” 

Clara doesn’t respond, but shifts uncomfortably because she can feel his gaze on her. It knows so much. She turns to shut the door behind her, leaning against it for a second. She needs a moment, a moment of quiet to gather her courage to ask him to leave.

But it’s the Doctor who interrupts the silence. “You’re slouching.”

Her head snaps up and she whirls around to stare incredulously at him. The weight from her bag seems to feel heavier and she wants to smack him with it. She meets his gaze— momentarily— it’s like looking directly into the sun and being nearly blinded. She looks away to compose herself.

She has to get to her room.

She needs to.

(you keep losing those you love)

“What?” Without realizing it, she’s let more than her exhaustion slip through the careful mask she’s been struggling to hold until she reaches her room and curled up on her bed, her haven.

He smirks at her, the brutal honesty clear on his face. “Slouching. You. It’s no'good for you. Hasn't anyone ever told you?”

She can smell the trap but she ignores her instincts and bites her lips to keep from answering him.

Silence, a struggle, is her weapon of choice now.

Later, she’ll think her decision was childish. But in that hallway, in a closed space with him and thoughts of—

(losing everyone, over and over and over)

She shakes her head and forces herself to exhibit self-control. She pushes past the Doctor and steps around the Tardis, only sighing with relief when she is at her bedroom door.

“Not today,” she murmurs. “Doctor.”

Tired and hurt, she closes the door to her bedroom and turns the lock.

 

-

 

That night, she dreams she’s sixteen again.

She’ll have these nights, weeks even. She’ll dream of things that she’s never spoken about, in front of fellow teachers and those she calls friends. She dreams she saves her Mum, like the twisting of a leaf once saved her Dad and that her loses were never insurmountable.

But it’s only at home. Only at night. With her sheets twisted like rope around her legs and a breeze from the ceiling fan that goes round and round. It’s always a different story at home and alone. She can’t hide from her secrets here. 

Danny haunts her dreams mercilessly for the first time. 

She’ll dream things like when he declared, in his awkward way, that she was the only one for him. She’ll dream that he had touched her hand, held it as if it were the most precious gift she could have ever given him. 

Danny will say things to her like _I love you_ and _you are all I will ever need, Clara_. And she will laugh and smile and feel like herself again, because she can hold these memories as dreams. It’ll be some sort of haze, that’s how she’ll remember what Danny and her were. 

(they’ll tell her and tell her and tell her but she’ll never listen and later, older and wiser she’ll remember the devastation of coming out of that haze alone and bewildered because Danny was never there to hold her hand to begin with)

And then the dream will change and she will see herself older, not wiser. She and Danny will be happy in love, planning for the things you plan for. He will read to her when she is exhausted at night and she will have coffee ready for him in the morning.

Danny would have asked her _will you marry me_ and she would have cried. She knows this.

(you’re ignoring the fact that you haven’t known him all that long to be making this decision Linda would have screamed and the ring will have mocked her when the sun hit it, reflecting in shards of light her poor choices, her Dad would not talk to her until the day of the wedding)

That night, she dreams she’s sixteen again and her Mum is the only ghost who will not mock her without cause.

She’ll dream she’s sixteen again and watch herself go through the grieving for her Mum. She’ll watch herself and Danny crumble into dust, such ordinary dust — Danny will fade and she will try and follow. Because she loved him. She knows. And he knew.

(you shouldn’t have loved me you shouldn’t have needed me because you and i were never meant to last)

She’ll watch him disappear, fade away to nothing. Danny the Soldier. The Romantic. The Voice of Reason. Always and forever. This she knows. 

And wake up shaking and in a sweat, yet again unable to forgive herself.

(don’t touch him, you’ll lose him)

It’s always the same thing.

 

-

 

It’s weeks later before she sees the Doctor again. She use to wonder what he did with himself, in the span of time between visits. She finds that she doesn’t much care these days, doesn’t much care for anything. Her Gran calls it going through the motions.

She hasn’t reached the days where going back to Coal Hill is easy. She’s still jumping from moment to moment, hours to minutes, and those irreplaceable seconds that have been whisked away into an abyss of desolate memories. Those seconds will haunt her later and it’s the later that she knows she’s unprepared for the most.

She thinks nothing of that fateful day or even the week that followed. And the week after that. School becomes easier to hide in. Faces melt, child becomes children. People become one person. Mundane conversation is always a yes, I’m fine I’m just tired today or a no, I need go home because of this and hides successfully the truth. It’s the truth that will crush her.

“Clara,” he says gently. And she’s always caught off guard because of the way the Doctor always says her name, a mixture of urgency and beseeching. There’s no secret to what this is about.

She stands and clears the mess of files and papers she’s been barely glancing over. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she mumbles, “Don’t worry about it.”

She avoids him, keeping her gaze low or directed to corners. It’s been easier now. There’s a cold, clinical distance between her and him. His attempts to goad her into any sort of argument have lessened considerably. She’s become too good (again) at finding that alternative answer and training herself away from directly confronting his curiosity.

“How did—”

She cuts him off. “It’s written all over your face.”

He tilts his head, waiting for her. “Does today work? Or still no good?”

She sighs and leans against the desk, crossing her arms to control herself.

“Is that it?” She asks calmly, waiting for the Doctor to start prying. Assumptions. Questions. Intentions. Honest. Curious. It all melts into the same thing sooner or later.

“I just wondered if you were done with the whining and the eyes.” It’s not a question.

She says nothing. Grabbing a binder, she straightens her sweater and sets herself ready to leave. Even unintentional vulnerability is dangerous now. This time she has to protect herself.

“Clara.” Second time.

She stops in the doorway and stiffens.

He continues. “It’s like you’ve invented a new silent treatment.”

“Maybe you should just go on without me.” Her mouth is dry. Her words taste bitter.

Words form and fall as explanations in her head, why she avoids him. She tries logic, wills it against the need to vent, emotionally rationalize. She’s been in this situation before. She understands grief, it’s her companion. She struggles against the need to talk to someone and he is that someone she desperately needs. But that desire is overshadowed by her fear of inadvertently sounding selfish. And selfish she is, because she knows that she is not the only one to have lost someone or that she is not the only one who continues to lose those she cares about. Proof of that is standing in front of her.

But selfish she is, right now.

“Clara, you can’t just mope about, it’s been months.”

“Weeks,” she corrects, the emptiness a constant. 

His eyes are wide. “But who’s counting.”

“I am. Is that so hard to believe? That I am still counting the days since I lost him.” 

Leaning against the doorway, her shoulders sag in exhaustion. Not a widow, just a someone. A someone who has lost another someone. Her voice is still cold. Her apathy is distant. It scares her that she’s gotten used to the fact— to saying it to herself. Not even a widow.

“He’s gone, Clara. We can’t bring him back. ” The Doctor breathes. “Are you going to spend the rest of your life moping about, waiting for something to happen?”

She shrugs. “Sounds good.”

“OK, maybe you should. If this is what you want, if this is what you think you deserve, then I will leave you to it.”

She can still taste the ashes turning to dust in her mouth as she understands Danny is not coming back. 

(he’s gone clara we couldn’t get him back he’s gone, gone, gone)

(did you really love him as much as you claim)

(or is it the guilt eating at you)

(just guilt)

“Leave then, doesn’t matter” she answers finally, shaking out of her trance. 

(look who is lying now)

She misses the expression on his face, having flickered so briefly exposing the truth and then that too, is gone. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” And she’ll go no further than that. 

He steps back and she is grateful for that. She thinks back to her Mum’s funeral and thinks that she always remembers those moments like photographs in a book. The fading. The ugly. And the desolation. The loneliness. Black and white. Red.

Lost.

Black.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. She gets the feeling that he’s apologizing for something else. More than he will let on. Or that she will acknowledge. It’s human nature. Except he’s not human. 

Clara will give him this.

“I do want to see you again. If I didn’t, this would have been over a long time ago… But I’m not going to be rushed or pushed. I just need some time. Time is your forte, so give some of it to me.”

He only stares at her with that same look as he did earlier, as if he were really seeing her for the first time. The only time. And smiles, quickly. 

“I’ve got to go,” he says, backing up towards the doors of the Tardis, hands out as if to ward off any approach. 

She nods, moving slightly so that he can pass.

“Time I can do.”

Her lips curl. No smile, but a sour taste. It’s about the distance, she reminds herself.

This time it’s about walking away.

(i will not get hurt again.)


	2. pocket full of posies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t know what this is between them.
> 
> Him, showing up like this.
> 
> Or her, allowing herself to lean on him.
> 
> There is no sentimentalism now. Not between them. There are no confessions of a greater love or everlasting promises. A terrible confusion lingers and twists. There are ghosts between them and old wounds. There is this thing. She reaches for his hand and he hesitates but accepts and doesn’t move away. And the world— this heartbreaking world— won’t stop spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post a chapter a day before the finale since it's so far removed from canon, it's funny. 
> 
> Post- Dark Water, I made some assumptions about Death in Heaven but I really don't know what is going to happen. This is very much a character study of Clara. Danny is part of this story but it will eventually be more Twelve & Clara. Rating may go up in the last chapter.

It was inevitable that she would be drawn back to him, back to the Tardis. It was also inevitable that they would end up fighting at one point or another.

Confrontation, by definition, is a conflict and natural because of the battle between two wills. Hers and his. There’s a difference of ideas, they’ve had those in the past. She had once stood on a house of lies so precarious that telling the truth, even just once, threatened to shake down everything she had so carefully built up. 

Then there is now.

They have tension. Unresolved. Painful. And growing.

Days later, this will be their next confrontation.

A bang on the Tardis console startles her and she jumps, looking up to meet the unreadable gaze of the Doctor. 

She looks away and down to her work; she still brings her markings with her, her way of establishing some levels of normalcy. He continues to bang at something and she wants to yell at him to stop. Confrontation. Inevitability. Rationality dictated that this could only be put off for so long.

She’s going to hate this.

“Clara.”

Clara blinks and feigns an innocent surprise, happy that her hands have managed to stay steady. She doesn’t look up. Instead she continues to study her papers, making notations here and there. “Hello,” she smiles.

“You’ve been sitting there and not paying attention to me. There are things happening.” He offers her a small smile, chin tilted at her, hands both pointing towards the console.

She almost, almost rolls her eyes at his eagerness. “I was thinking I might pop off home, yeah? I have to finish this and not sure I'd be good company.”

His face falls slightly and she wants to grab the words back, to spare him that. Already, she wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of this conversation. Lately it seemed that they could never have a straight conversation. That ended well.

“Ah.” So much said in so little.

And she always does have work. Her schoolwork is her greatest excuse, the students providing her an outlet and hiding place. It isn’t about being overly sentimental and subjecting herself— molding, for lack of a better word— to the tired lie of his assumptions of her.

“Yes. Yes. Well, I thought maybe you wouldn’t need to leave for a while. It is a time machine, you know.”

She sighs, tapping her pen against the paper. “I’m just tired and we kinda had a crazy day today. I think you still have stains on your jumper from those bushes.”

He looks down, brushing at the front of his jumper absent mindedly. She swallows. _Don’t do this_ , she tells herself. _Don’t do this again._

(i wanted to know if you would stay)

(you need me)

(honestly, patience is not something he does so well)

“We can always make it back in time, Clara. I’ve succeeded once or twice in the past.”

She shifts uncomfortably. “And I, unfortunately, am not blessed with the same gift of time that you seem to have,” she almost snaps. “Conversations in circles give me headaches.”

“Now that’s just rude,” he mocks, tossing his screwdriver on top of the papers cluttered around her. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out another random metal stick and tosses that alongside the screwdriver. It echoes around the room.

“And now you’re just being patronizing.”

His voice is quiet. The answer is tired. “I thought you knew.”

She says nothing. The truth in the statement gives the air in the room a heavier weight. It lingers and it mocks.

“I saw the most fascinating thing the other day.”

And it should’ve been expected. 

It should’ve.

(you were not going to get away that easy)

He drags a stool from the corner and pulls it right beside her. He sits and she turns away, forcing herself to focus on the papers front of her. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and she forces herself to stay calm. Tensing obviously would give him the advantage.

(this is a game for you never for me)

“Soooo, home right?” she repeats. 

But he doesn’t move from beside her. “Clara, it was amazing. Most beautiful light show in the universe, we could go now, see it again.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” she mumbles. Tired. Frustrated.

He snorts in disbelief. “Yeah. You are. And you’ve managed to make me feel like a five year old on the playground.”

She shifts. “If I were avoiding you, don’t you think I’d try a little bit harder?”

“Aren’t you?” Question. Answer. The air in the room grows dangerous.

Trying to reply as nonchalantly as possible, she tells him, “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I were.”

“You know I hate the silent treatment. Still very primary school.”

“I think you’re doing a fantastic enough job for the both of us.”

He leans back slightly, moving out of her personal space.

She sighs and quietly says, “I don’t want to do this with you.”

“But you are,” he replies. “I could do this all day. Time machine.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes. And then opens again. _Shit_ , she thinks. 

And so the real question is slowly being revealed. 

“I don’t have to have a reason,” she murmurs, carefully making her unwinding reaction. “You think I do because then you’re analysis of me will work for you and you’ll have an excuse.”

He says nothing, but his gaze darkens and the intensity causes her to shudder quietly. He’s never looked at her like that.

“I’m not going to give you that excuse.”

She stands, turning to leave as the Tardis lands.

“Clara.”

Her name. She freezes. The question is clear.

“Yes,” she replies. Her response is clear and unwavering. She’s almost surprised at how calm she is. “I would. Even if I had to do it all over again. But this time, this time I wouldn’t lie. It’s what you do for the ones you love, even if it sounds terribly idealistic.”

“You suffer.” Something’s changing.

“Yeah,” she echoes. “You suffer and it haunts you. It tears at you. But… I don’t have any regrets.”

She’s gone before he can answer.

(you me change)

(it’s happening)

 

-

 

In a perfect world, Clara would stay on the Tardis and make it her home forever.

But this isn’t a perfect world. She’s scared, terrified even, of changes and the past year has proven to be nothing but changes. The lies— between him and her— make her feel too small and too insignificant. And despite every reassurance she can think of, Clara feels herself drowning in loss.

Again.

And again.

And again.

(it’s time to let go)

It’s a cold spring afternoon and she walks home to her flat, tugging her jacket closer to her body. 

Her mobile rings. “Hello?”

She tries and keeps her response soft and neutral, she already knows who it is.

“Clara!” he says.

And almost instantly she knows why he is calling, he doesn’t have to say anything more than her name. The rising and fall of the tones in the word. She senses the question. And underneath the question, the anticipation.

She pulls her hand out of her pocket. “What’s wrong?”

She reaches her flat and stops, waiting for a reply. She leans against her door to support her weight. She can feel the answer, almost as strongly as a lie and a secret. She closes her eyes and waits but there is no response. After a moment, she uses her keys to open the door.

And then screams as she drops them.

Her eyes widen as she sees Doctor standing a few feet away from her, Tardis parked in her doorway again. His gaze is unreadable.

“What’s wrong?” he repeats her question, turning to hang up the phone.

Her hands are shaking. She wants to laugh. Or better yet, she wants to cry and then scream and then laugh some more. She’s pulled into several directions— she used to be so good at hiding emotional instability. Carefully constructed masks. She should be used to this.

But all she can manage is a, “You scared me, Doctor.”

He takes a step forward. Then another one. And she wonders why all of this is suddenly so awkward and confusing and surreal.

The laugh that rips through her throat is quiet and slightly confused. “Nothing is wrong. Actually, nothing is wrong.” And she means it.

His response is careful. “So, I have planned a good one,” he begins. “And it’s Wednesday, and why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

The answer to _how long have you been standing there_ is clear. But what scares and confuses her is how confused— no matter how hard she tries— she is around him. This thing between them is different now and in knots and somewhere along the lines of this conversation, she’s beginning to realize that it’s inescapable. 

She can’t even run away.

He reaches over, picks up her keys and repeats for the third time. “So nothing is wrong?” and then softly, “So we can go then?”

She takes the keys that are offered to her, pushing them into her bag. She is trying not to stare at him in disbelief or crumble into further pieces. But this, this is just unbelievably—

She doesn’t know what this is between them anymore.

Him, showing up like this.

Or her, allowing herself to lean on him.

There is no sentimentalism now. Not between them. There are no confessions of a greater love or everlasting promises. A terrible confusion lingers and twists. There are ghosts between them and old wounds. There is this thing. She reaches for his hand and he hesitates but accepts and doesn’t move away. And the world— this heartbreaking world— won’t stop spinning.

“Yes,” she relents. Her voice is stronger than it should be. “Yes, let’s go.”

He nods and beckons her to the Tardis. With her free hand, she manages to grab her bag and then they make the walk inside.

He won’t let go of her hand until they are inside instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Kara, thank you. Your notes are the highlight of my day!!


	3. ashes, ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were they always destined for this? Always pushing, pulling each other over lines and into walls. Always pressing boundaries that were drawn in crooked lines. Always wanting to test each other to see who would go the farthest. Is this them now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post- Dark Water, I made some assumptions about Death in Heaven but I really don't know what is going to happen. This is very much a character study of Clara.

In what will seem like endless years instead of simply a week, Clara has all but moved into the Tardis.

It starts on a Wednesday, he brings her home but she turns back to him, “I’d rather stay, maybe one more trip?” 

His eyes shine bright and for a moment, there’s a chasm of words unspoken between them and then that moment is gone. He merely nods and they are off. One more trip turns into two, three, four and suddenly Earth feels like a distant memory. She wonders why she didn’t think of this sooner. 

He’ll tell her stories and she’ll pretend to listen, but her eyes are always moving. She will spend hours trying to remember her recent grief but it is fading and less sharp. She will also spend those hours trying to remember her mother who laughed too loud and smiled too bright.

But inevitably she will fail and somewhere along the way, she’ll have to find space because everything will be coming at her at once and waiting, until there is no more room left to breathe.

And this is how she’ll find her way to an observation deck in the Tardis, buried deep in her heart. There, it’s as if she were floating amongst the stars and for the first time, she’s calm and even.

It’s far too dark and quiet and the emptiness below echoes. She walks slowly to a far end corner and leans against the edge. It’s beautiful.

She can’t remember the last time she was this calm, this at peace. 

“That’s my spot.”

She laughs and it hurts, god does it hurt. She won’t turn around. He’s got to come to her this time. “Is your new hangout dark and lonely corners?”

She hears him begin to move towards her and closes her eyes. If it were one thing she could do without in this moment, it would be another confrontation of any sort. She needs to have control— a feeling of absolute certainty. She needs things of substance, something she could understand. Not this. Not now.

“So,” he says and pauses as if he didn’t know how to continue.

She almost smiles at his awkwardness. “It’s quiet here.”

“That’s the idea.”

She inhales sharply, propping her chin on top of her hands. She thinks of how lost she once felt, how alone she was and in the end, his presence is a comfort. She thinks she understands him now, if only it hadn’t taken so much to get there.

“Don’t ask it,” she says suddenly. She can predict the next question, a question that he’ll ask for _reasons. I don’t want to do this_ , she’ll almost say.

He sighs. “Wasn’t going to. I’m more interested in other things.”

She rolls her eyes at his easy attempt at misdirection. He’s testing her, pushing her, wanting to see if she takes the bait and wander straight into his trap. He wanted to go backwards, back into the safe abyss of what they were. Going forward was, is, too dangerous for them.

But she had long ago come to terms that she couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop this. 

“What other things?” she questions vaguely, latching onto the momentary distraction. She rubs her eyes tiredly.

He chuckles. “And spoil the surprise?”

She jumps when his hand presses against her hip. His hand is cold and his fingers are gentle. They brush against her skin as if he’s playing an instrument. In this moment, she’ll forget how to breathe. His touches come a little more freely, given with less hesitation. It still startles her when offered to her first. 

Her eyes are wide and her lips part as his fingers continue to stroke her skin. The rational side of herself will scream that this is a violation of the line they had forced each other to draw. But the rest— the darker, more turbulent sensibilities will win and her hand will reach behind herself and cover his. She slowly moves her hand over his, stilling his movements.

(can we do this)

(I’m not your boyfriend)

(no, he’s gone but what are you)

Were they always destined for this? Always pushing, pulling each other over lines and into walls. Always pressing boundaries that were drawn in crooked lines. Always wanting to test each other to see who would go the farthest. Is this them now?

She grabs his wrist and his breath is warm against her neck.

“Let’s go back,” she murmurs, willing herself to be the one to step back and away from this deadly dance of self-destruction. “It’s late.”

He sighs against her neck and she slowly realizes that he’s been leaning against her all this time. “You should go,” he agrees quietly. “I think I might—”

This is the part where she should’ve retreated as quickly as she could.

Instead, she asks, “You’ll what?” She winces at how curious she manages to sound like. She doesn’t want to give him that much.

“You don’t want me to answer that.” It’s not a question. And she can’t help but be surprised that he’s letting her have this opportunity to walk away. 

“No,” she answers.

His lips brush against her neck. “Liar.”

And she doesn’t believe herself either.

“Why are we doing this?” She asks finally. Why were they? She’s too tired to make any sense of what was happening. She was unraveling, she knew that much, and he— he seems to be following down the rabbit hole with her.

His honesty will scare her. “I don’t know. I never know with you.”

There is so much hiding behind and inside his words— things that neither of them are ready or even willing to address with the certainty that it requires. And suddenly, she is so very scared. Scared of the intensity. Of them. Of him. Of the instability that might claim her and drag her back into the abyss.

“I should go.” I don’t want to do this anymore. I need an answer.

He pulls back. Her hand still covers his. “Go.” We’re far past the stopping point.

She nods, she understands now.

It’s too late for them to walk away.

 

-

 

At sixteen, Clara will stop believing in anything that requires a leap of faith. 

It will happen and it will be quick. It will be the only time she’ll ever witness a ferocious kind of cruelty, a cruelty that she could never speak of again to anyone else. Until the day he takes her wounds and twists them into a healing balm and pours it out over them.

Her recovery will come at the price of scars and the kindness of a man not quite who he says he is.

And she will try and hide the rest.

“You’re in love,” her Gran tells her over tea.

Clara jumps, startled at the sound filling the quiet room. She leans forward, reaching for her grandmother’s curling hand. “Sssssh, what are you talking about. Of course, I’m not in love.”

Her Gran laughs and it’s nothing more than a whisper. “I’m not blind, darling,” she whispers. “I see it in your eyes. It’s good.”

She nods, but doesn’t say anything and twirls a stem of peony between her fingers. Her Gran brought them with her when she came to tea. 

“They smell wonderful, Gran.” She swallows and tries to meet the curious gaze of her grandmother, but fails. The soft fragrance of the peonies mocks her and the memories seem to do nothing but hate her. 

Her Grandmother’s voice cuts through before she has a chance to fall back into those memories. “You never answered my question.”

“Gran,” she protests, weakly hoping to avoid the topic at hand. (him her and that) Too many aspects left undefined. It’s a fatal kind of limbo. She’s too stuck. “It’s not important.”

Her grandmother reaches for her other hand, lacing their fingers together. They looked liked each other once. Same smile. Same laugh. “But it is. I’ve never seen you so scared.”

She meets her grandmother’s gaze with reluctant surprise. Time, no matter how awfully comforting it can be, has done nothing to change the relationship she shares with her Gran. Memories are rusty but no one has loved her the way her Gran has.

Her Gran can see right through her and she is terrified; afraid of revealing too much, too little, not enough.

And she cannot bring herself to say anything without fumbling over what it really means.

“He scares me.” Her honesty hurts. But it also frees her; one less lie, one more truth. Hey, it’s a start.

“He should scare you,” her grandmother says, the grip of her hand tightening. “It wouldn’t be love if it didn’t.”

The all too familiar word rises like bile in her throat. Excuses, old and older, return to their former places in her mind. Her rationality. “I loved Danny.”

Her grandmother shakes her head. A sad smile tugs at her lips. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did.” The idea. The idea of a relationship, something safe and stable. She loved the comfort and in her mind, it was the exact opposite of her relationship with the Doctor. But only comfort and even that had only been real for so long. The fundamentals of their relationship were never clear, and she blames her lies for that.

“No,” she repeats. “You just did an excellent job of convincing yourself you did. The life that the two of you started never completely took off. This one is different. You’re different.”

Her lips tremble. She tries to force disbelief into her voice. “How?”

She hates the way her Gran stares at her with that knowing gaze. Like she could see the secrets that Clara could never bring herself to admit.

“You’re alive, Clara,” she tells her wistfully. “I’ve forgotten what it was like to see you like this.”

“I’m not in love.” Emptiness is deceitful, but oh so easy. (it’s so easy lying to yourself)

Her grandmother’s smile is hollow. But the truth is familiar. “You’re almost there.”

Hours later, Clara finds herself back on the Tardis.

And the Doctor will find her on the observation deck again, clutching that peony stem and wishing things could be so different, wishing that she hadn’t spent so much time and effort in all those lies. 

 

(the two of them will begin like this)


	4. we all fall down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s everything that she thinks she should understand about him and can’t. It’s everything she wants to predict about him but is unable. It’s everything that he thinks she should understand about her and can’t. It’s everything he wants to predict about her but is unable. Who they are and their comfort level around each other have already woven together (time allowed them that) and their roles have not changed— it’s the awareness of each other that has.
> 
> And while later he’ll claim that she was his downfall, they will make sense out of the fragments and dark corners. He already knows her ghosts and she re-familiarizes herself with his. What is left unsaid still lingers in the silence, but it’s what defines them.
> 
> This makes sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is maybe more mature than previous chapters! Thank you for all the comments here and at my tumblr. If you ever want to chat about this ship, always feel free to hit me up over there. Thank you again for your feedback and for reading.

When it happens, it will be sex with strings, lots of strings.

The moment she steps into the Tardis, she feels the hum of welcome brushing against her skin, she knows the time has come to stop running.

When it begins, the rationale will be simple.

She is driven by profound relief, laced with the unspeakable. He is driven by all the things he will not say. It’s what makes them, them. 

It takes her ten minutes to find him, he’s not in the main room when she enters.

She’s not thinking rationally, she simply knows she needs to see him. The Tardis guides her around until she reaches his door. She just knows and somehow finds herself accepting the fact that she’s there (she should not be), readying herself for another slow execution.

Knocking on the door, she’ll hear the faint melody of music playing.

He answers on the third knock. “Hello.”

She stands in front of him, wisps of hair slipping from her ponytail. She will not ignore the intensity of his gaze this time and she’s more aware of her decisions— the ones she has no desire to make.

Instead, she says, “Hi.”

“Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.” he says, leaning against the doorway. She should be used to this now. The conversations. The circles. Always irritatingly frustrating. But—

(you shouldn’t be here)

“Well, the Tardis came to me,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself. “So I assumed you knew where you were.”

He nods. The door opens a little wider. “Typical. Isn’t it late?”

“Somewhat.” She shifts.

He sighs. “Want to come in?”

She nods her head. Shifts from one foot to the other. When did they become this painful, this arbitrary?

His eyes narrow down to hers. “I can’t give you what you’re looking for.”

And that’s what finally sets her off.

The lies. All the lies. _All we do is lie_. He is simply better at hiding it, but this time he hadn’t bothered. Why was that? He kept pulling and pushing and running and forcing her to think things of herself that had never even occurred to her. He made her want him. He made her _need_ him.

He wanted her to hate him. He wanted to push her away where he didn't have to understand this between them.

“When you lie,” she begins quietly, finally meeting his gaze. “When you lie, you look at the person as if they were a ghost. Something that’ll fade away.”

She steps forward and grabs his wrist. He watches her carefully and it doesn’t bother her that she can’t read him— she’s always been able to before. He’s been too good at this game. He’s been too good at making her second-guess and look for all those false clues. But that was before. Before his confession, before he told her how much he cared.

_You’re alive, Clara. I’ve forgotten what it was like to see you like this._

Her voice is soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

(did you think I cared so little for you)

(all we do is lie to each other)

“I don’t want to need you,” he hisses finally. 

He pushes her against the wall. His door slams shut against and the hinges scream. Her shirt starts to ride up and the stones of the wall scratches against her back as his fingers push against the lace of her underwear.

“Please,” she’ll snap back. She swallows back a cry as she arches against the slow, steady movement of his fingers brushing against the elastic of the underwear and slipping inside. She grips his arms to hold herself up. “Like you and I ever had any choice.”

His head falls against her shoulder and his lips move against her skin. She doesn’t know what he’s saying because all she feels is one of his fingers pushing inside of her.

“Oh,” she whimpers.

And he’ll laugh. Dangerous. Low. The sound itself will set her insides on fire and turn her inside out. “We should stop,” he whispers in her ear. She’ll almost scream when he enters another finger inside of her.

The rest she’ll remember in a series of moments, taken one after the other. Something will rip— her cotton top and maybe his shirt. He groans because her hands have finally let go of his arm and have slipped into his pants. 

The pace of his fingers inside her slows because she’s got one hand wrapped around him, mirroring his motions. She will memorize him through heavy eyes. Every crease in his mouth. The furrowing of his brow. She will learn his reactions and he will push for hers.

And somewhere along the way, he’ll press his mouth against hers. She’ll release a sigh when his tongue runs against her bottom lip and her free hand will tangle in his hair. And she knows she’ll never forget the taste of her Doctor, all scotch and sweet, sweet honey like that.

“You never gave me a choice,” he echoes from her words. 

Instead it’ll sound like this, half a growl and a plea, “Never – a - _choice_ -”

But she’s long past caring, knows that she’s beginning to lose herself to _this_ and _that_ and _them_.

It’s as close as to any admission she’ll ever get from him.

Then there will be the point where she won’t know who’s holding whom up and whether or not she really cares. But when he pulls his fingers out of her she’ll recognize the line that they keep running away from in the haze.

He’ll manage to push himself inside of her without warning.

Their movement will be unpredictable and disordered. She’ll cry out. He’ll moan. It’ll be that familiar melody that seems to belong only to them. It’s a struggle— he’ll feel the pain (she senses it) and she’ll see the grief (he’ll swallow it) and they’ll move up, down, up, down like they should’ve done this before.

And when it’s over, (the moment never them) him, her, _that_ will become a different kind of truth.

 

-

 

In the end, it’s the truth layered between the lies that makes them.

It’s everything that she thinks she should understand about him and can’t. It’s everything she wants to predict about him but is unable. It’s everything that he thinks she should understand about her and can’t. It’s everything he wants to predict about her but is unable. Who they are and their comfort level around each other have already woven together (time allowed them that) and their roles have not changed— it’s the awareness of each other that has.

And while later he’ll claim that she was his downfall, they will make sense out of the fragments and dark corners. He already knows her ghosts and she re-familiarizes herself with his. What is left unsaid still lingers in the silence, but it’s what defines them.

This makes sense.

Hours after her arrival on the Tardis and the crumbling of their storied walls, they sit on a couch with his hand curled around her arm. She leans deeper into the crook of his arm, her eyes closed and her breathing steady.

He hasn’t stopped touching her, once started now free from any constraints and she marvels at the feeling it invokes in her. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed it until it was offered again. His motions are soft and fleeting. Sometimes she thinks it’s because he’s afraid (you’ll burn someone else). Mostly, she thinks it’s the same reasoning that she has. One moment of rationality could make all of this disappear. It’s been too long for her and it’s been a hell for them.

This is the only ounce of predictability that she’ll admit to.

She shivers as the slow circling of his fingers travel down her arm and rest again at the corner of her hip. She almost smiles when they move in circles, his fingers move in a peculiar rhythm. Tentative. Uneven. 

“Sooo, staying here?”

“Tonight?” she answers his question with one of her own. She’s a bit surprised that he asked. Was she staying on the Tardis with him tonight or was there something more to the question? But, because this is new, she hesitates in her honesty with him. “I would like to stay here with you.”

“Yes, with me.” And he understands the truth in her admission.

She nods. “Ok, now that’s cleared up.”

He pushes. “You loved him.”

She wants to tell him that what what made her relationship with Danny could only be encompassed in her race to believe in what they had set into motion. Danny and her were a tragedy of lies, of a life that could have happened but was built too precariously.

So she tells him what she can.

“I convinced myself I did.” That truth sounds so strange coming from her lips. But it fits. Again, it’s a start. “Which is what, in the end, made it worse.”

“Isn’t that same thing?” They aren’t talking about her and Danny anymore. His fingers are still moving in circles against the side of her hip. She shifts and presses her body closer to his and weighs her answer very carefully.

She shakes her head. “No,” she replies slowly. “It isn’t. Danny and I— we were special and mad. I wanted something safe and mine to hold onto, something stable and what I thought was real. It was a game when it should never have been played the way it was. A game that I played and he lost.”

And she has nothing more to say. All those memories she had with Danny, are things that will be dealt with eventually. She will tell him as best as she can, when she can.

A question falls on her lips, poised on the tip of her tongue.

“Puzzles,” he answers before she asks. His caresses still and his hand presses against her hip. “That’s what you were. A puzzle to be solved.”

She swallows. It’s a brutal answer and she nearly misses the question that unintentionally lurks underneath. She answers with a statement. “You think I’m going to leave you.”

He brushes his lips against her bare shoulder. She can feel the sadness and underlying expectation. The uncertainty. “Isn’t that how this works?”

“No.” She doesn’t hesitate. And isn’t surprised that he stiffens against her. Her expectations are minimal ,she knows (and he knows) that both their senses of love and loyalty— to each other— will become the only idealistic aspect of them. 

“That’s why this is…” He trails off. He doesn’t do honesty or emotional conversations of any sort well.

“Scary?” She offers. “Undefined?”

He nods in agreement. “Unpredictable.” But that’s a lie.

Her response is guarded. This is the aftermath that she expected and the predictability of the questions, their weight and intensity, holds a future. The one they’ve been prolonging now for so long. “Does it matter?”

There’s a long pause. “No,” his voice is soft. She doesn’t have to look up to see him make a face at the sentiment of his confession. “It doesn’t.”

She presses her lips against the bottom of his chin. “Then?”

“I’m very difficult,” he warns, eyes intense on hers. His intentions to avoid any further conversations are so obvious and borderline obnoxious. But she gets it. Only because they’ve come this far. “Obsessive and—”

Her mouth falls into an amused smile. “Rude. Slightly mental. And um, patronizing?”

“You’re really not funny.” She can feel his smile against her shoulder. For a moment, they return to the comfortable banter. Him. Her. And those circles that they do.

“Neither are you,” she shoots back. “But I manage to laugh anyway.”

The change between them still manages to remain unclear. There are things they will have to discuss. Truths, finally a clear line of truth; confessions that will have to be told. For now, she knows that this— strange, but necessary— will be enough. For him and her and them.

She waits for the last question to fall.

(how are you really doing)

Instead the real question comes in the form of his lips kissing her forehead. He doesn’t have to ask and he doesn’t, it’s implied in the silence and the unspoken. 

Her smile falters. Her words are soft yet strong. “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you will be.”

And that is that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kara for the read through, as always. Love your notes.


End file.
